


These Golden Years

by TwelveLeagues



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Fluff, Healing Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Javert's ponytail, M/M, Nature, Outdoor Sex, Post-Seine, Valjean's lovely white hair, all sorts of wholesome things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-23 20:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14941109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/pseuds/TwelveLeagues
Summary: “There is something about the fresh air and the quiet,” he says softly, avoiding Javert’s eyes. “When a man has been confined, a long walk can be a balm to the soul.”Javert takes Valjean for a walk and discovers a new way to give.





	These Golden Years

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dylan_m](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dylan_m/gifts).



> I've tried to get as many of your preferences in as I could, but was particularly inspired by the body worship prompt. There is some canonical angst in this fic, but it's all in the service of getting the old men to a place of love and comfort. I hope you like it!

Too many weeks have passed since the wedding and Valjean will still not be roused. Javert can no longer stand it. He pulls back the covers of Valjean’s bed, feeling a spark of the old certainty that has eluded him for months.

“Up,” he snaps. Valjean is curled on his side, and Javert wonders briefly how this can be the same man who bore him from the river on his back. Whose sheer force of will saved the life of his daughter’s new husband. Whose hands are gentle on Javert’s hips in the darkness on those nights when the need in Javert is so wordless and urgent that he can do nothing but demand. He watches, keeping his jaw firm to mask his dismay as Valjean props himself up wearily on one elbow.

“Come along then,” he says, busying himself in search of a clean shirt and decent trousers. He avoids Valjean’s eyes as he thrusts the garments into his hands, then moves briskly across the room. “It’s almost noon, I won’t have you sleep another day away.”

“Javert, I haven’t the strength to visit—” There is no denying the way Valjean’s voice falters before he can finish the sentence. How long has this gone on? Javert wonders. And in the moment of sharp realisation, he is torn. Valjean’s hair has grown shaggy and his cheeks are hollow. It has gone on far longer than Javert could have guessed. Should he be furious with Valjean or with himself? Surely if he’d had his wits about him, he would never have allowed things to reach this point.

“There won’t be any visiting today. Your daughter and her fool of a husband will just have to take care of themselves.” He makes himself speak the words aloud and does not regret the brusqueness in his tone. He has always been a poor liar, after all. There’s no sense denying the fact, so why not make use of it? When he steals a glance back at the bed, Valjean’s head is turned away. But he is sitting upright, the covers pushed aside and the late morning sun was gleaming in his silver hair.

It’s a start. Javert thrusts a pair of boots at Valjean, who takes hold of them with an obedience that is close to mechanical. “Put these on. We’re going for a walk.”

Valjean moves more slowly than Javert would prefer, but the simple act of standing and dressing makes him a little more himself. Javert takes care not to stare, but summons a carriage as Valjean performs his ablutions. Neither of them are as speedy as they once were, he reminds himself chidingly. When Valjean arrives at the doorway in a jacket and cravat, the picture of the eccentric gentleman he has always pretended to be, Javert understands why it has taken him so long to observe Valjean’s weariness.

He offers Valjean a hand up to the carriage, telling himself it is nothing but the consideration of one friend for another. Valjean’s hand trembles only a little and he slips neatly into the far seat, making room for Javert at his side.

After a word in the driver’s ear and an exchange of coins, Javert takes his place beside Valjean, who fixes him with an uncertain smile. It is still a wonder, to travel at Jean Valjean’s side in this manner, as though they were nothing more than two peculiar old friends. But that smile catches Javert’s attention, hooks into his stomach. It reminds him of Monsieur Madeleine: Those placid smiles that comforted Montreuil’s townsfolk and carefully revealed nothing.

Javert turns in his seat, touching a hand to Valjean’s silk cravat. It is a fine piece of material, a sheen of pale blue silk that catches the light just so.

“Take this off,” Javert says, trying to make his words a suggestion, not a command. He does not smile because his smile is rarely comforting. Instead he places a hand on Valjean’s knee.

Valjean quirks an eyebrow, and for the first time in what feels like weeks, his lip twitches in honest amusement. “Here? So early in the day?”

Javert’s throat heats, his mind filling with thoughts of what might follow after Valjean removes his cravat. “You misunderstand me,” he says, though he can hear his own voice rougher than usual. “What I mean to say is: You won’t need it. Not where we’re going. Take it off, the driver won’t see.”

Valjean glances towards the front of the cab, where the boy’s eyes are fixed on the road and his horses. Dipping his head, he reaches up to untie the silk knot at his throat. Javert watches, transfixed, as he pulls the cloth free and holds it out in offering, his smile altogether more shy now that his collar hangs open for Javert’s inspection.

Javert takes the proffered cloth, folding it carefully before tucking it into his pocket, careful not to let his eyes be drawn to Valjean’s exposed throat.

“Good,” he says. There is a heat in the carriage that was not there before. Valjean’s gaze darts away and shifts in the direction of the window. Javert watches over his shoulder as the cobbled streets melt into dirt roads. The sounds of the street callers fade away and the clattering of the busy streets drift backwards into the distance, and Valjean’s shoulders seem to loosen as though he has laid down a great weight. And when there is no noise outside but the calls of wild herons and the rustle of trees, Javert knows he has made the right decision.

The carriage comes to a halt, and this time it is Valjean who helps Javert step out of the confined space. Javert slips the boy a second coin and the carriage rides away.

“We have until the evening,” Javert says. And then, feeling he ought to explain himself, he adds, “You used to take walks through the countryside. In Montreuil.”

Valjean inclines his head. “There is something about the fresh air and the quiet,” he says softly, avoiding Javert’s eyes. “When a man has been confined, a long walk can be a balm to the soul.”

Javert nods stiffly, avoiding the questions that leap up in his breast at Valjean’s words. Instead he looks at Valjean, grateful to have nothing else to look at and no one to see him look. In the sunshine, Valjean stands a little taller, and his expression is warm as he returns Javert’s gaze. No one has ever looked at Javert in such a way, and he straightens, strangely embarrassed by Valjean’s regard.

They have no specific plans and Javert does not know the area well, but Valjean is content to amble in the direction of the woods. If Valjean had set out alone, Javert thinks, he may well have come with a stick to help him walk. So Javert offers him an arm, and Valjean’s weight is a faint and pleasant burden as they stroll through long grass that rises up to brush at the hem of Javert’s trousers.

“You chose a pleasant day for this,” Valjean says. And it is true. The sun is warm at their backs, as though the field’s own hands were guiding them further off the path. There is a pleasant buzz as bees go about their day’s work, moving between the cowslips that nestle between long leaves of grass. Valjean’s step is surer with every stride. The excursion may have been Javert’s idea, but he allows Valjean take the lead in this, as he does in so many things. Valjean resembles a bronze idol in the sunlight, the tanned skin he takes such pains to cover up in polite society is radiant out here where there is no one to hide from, not even the man who was once his jailor.

There are bands of paler skin even now — a faint strip that encircles Valjean’s throat and others around his wrists and ankles. But Javert keeps his eyes carefully away from those places. This is not a day for those memories, and if he can keep them out of Valjean’s mind, then all the better.

His thoughts are interrupted when Valjean lets out a gasp. He drops Javert’s arm, moving forward with unexpected speed. Javert follows without thinking, stomping across the uneven ground in pursuit of the thing that has stolen away Valjean’s attention.

The heavy trunk of a fallen tree is sprawled across the ground, its dead roots twisted and reaching helplessly into the air. Valjean is crouched beside one of its branches. For a moment Javert can only stare in confusion. Has Valjean been upset by a dead tree? But another step closer and the picture becomes clear. 

A goat kid has been trapped, its leg entangled in a twisting mass of branches. Valjean has one hand on the creature’s side, murmuring fervent reassurances as he works to lift the heaviest bough without causing further harm. When Javert places a hand on his shoulder, he startles as though realising for the first time that he is not alone.

“She needs our help,” Valjean breathes, half grateful and half urgent. “Take hold of her legs, will you?”

A part of Javert wants to protest: Valjean has been weakened by days in bed, after all, and Javert is hardly equipped to take charge of a wild animal. But Valjean appears to be drawing on the reserves of strength that Javert himself has witnessed more than once. So he offers the same brisk nod to Valjean that he would to Gisquet or Chabouillet, and allows Valjean to guide his hands to the goat’s small body.

The creature’s low bleats rise to a desperate cry when Javert lays his hands on it. It moves fitfully in Javert’s grip. He loosens his hold, cursing under his breath, and the goat thrashes its free limbs, beating at the soft earth beneath the tree.

“Javert, please!” There is a determination in Valjean’s voice that Javert has not heard for some time. “I almost have her, just try to keep her calm.”

Exhaling, Javert lays down his hands again. He fixes the goat with a stare as fearsome as he once directed at the cutpurses of Paris. “Be still,” he tells the goat as firmly as he can. The goat jerks sharply, her eyes darting. Coarse tufts of fur cover fragile skin that rises and falls with each jolt of breath. Javert scowls, gentling his touch as well as he can manage. His thumb moves unconsciously on the animals’ side, soothing downwards, and her breathing slows a little.

Javert raises questioning eyes to Valjean, who is heaving branches out of the way, picking carefully through leaves and twigs. Valjean does not look back at him. His attention is focused on his task, his expression sharp in a way it has not been since the night of the barricade. His back is bent and a sheen of sweat has formed on his forehead. But his expression tells Javert everything he needs to know.

“Not long now,” Javert mutters to himself. The goat must understand him on some level because her movements are less frantic now, though her low bleats are as pitiful as before.

“There!” Both of Valjean’s hands are deep in the mass of wood and browning leaves now. With one hand he lifts up a heavy bough, easing himself underneath it to bear it up on his shoulder. This frees both of his hands to prise apart the two branches that have pressed together, trapping the goat’s hoof. The goat bleats, kicking again, and Javert hushes her, soothing her as best he can with clumsy hands. 

The sound of the broken bough is loud enough to startle both the goat and Javert into silence. It is a pained crack. Even in death, it seems to pain the ancient tree to break apart in this way. The goat tumbles forward, pulling free of Javert’s grip with no trouble and skittering away behind a rock and then over a hill.

Javert exhales with surprise, slumping backwards onto the ground, sprawled between the tree’s branches.

“They move quickly once their shackles have been removed,” Valjean says. He sits down heavily on the log and Javert twists his head sideways and upwards to look at him. Valjean’s eyes are fixed on the distance, following the path the goat has taken. When he speaks again, it is as though the energy has been sapped from him. “There’s no sense trying to hold onto them. These are wild creatures. We offer what help we can, and then we set them loose.”

Javert shuffles closer until his shoulder is pressed against Valjean’s knee. He exhales harshly and finds that his hands are still trembling. The scrape of rough fur still prickles his fingertips. “You shouldn’t trouble yourself over ingrates,” he says, not meaning it entirely harshly but too exhausted to hide the gruffness in his tone.

Valjean’s hand comes down to clasp his shoulder.

“They aren’t ungrateful,” he says shakily. “Not really.”

“Then you shouldn’t trouble yourself over them at all.”

Valjean makes a sound that Javert has come to recognise. It is a dissatisfied hum that comes from the base of Valjean’s throat. It generally means Javert is entirely in the right, that Valjean has no argument that can defeat Javert’s flawless reasoning and that Valjean will continue on his course of action regardless. But his hand is still warm on Javert’s shoulder, and so Javert reaches up to cover it with his own. He thinks of the young goat, making her lonely way across fields and hills, freed from the tree but marked with the stink of human contact.

The sun is high in the sky. Beneath the branches that splay out beneath them, the grass is warm and sweet. Javert twists to look up at Valjean. Some of the slump has returned to his shoulders and Javert cannot bear to see it, not after seeing Valjean lifted as he was just a few minutes earlier. He presses a firm kiss to Valjean’s knuckles and glances up.

“Come along,” he says, his stomach twisting a little with unexpected pride when he catches the hint of a shy smile on Valjean’s lips. “I won’t permit any more self pity. We didn’t come out here to wallow.”

Valjean steadies himself, bracing a palm on the log and lowering himself to his knees until he is side by side with Javert. When Javert advances, he retreats, eyes fixed on Javert’s, until they are even further off the path and kneeling together in the long grass. 

“And what did you have in mind?” Valjean’s voice is lower than a whisper, barely a breath. At once so rough and soft it might disappear into the wind.

Javert’s pulse jumps. There is no clear path before them. Ordinarily this would be simple enough — he is used to feeling Valjean’s sturdy chest at his back, pressing into him in the darkness. He does not need words or even thoughts, his hips thrusting backwards make the demands clearly enough. And Valjean is obedient but bold, taking everything Javert offers with a gentle thoroughness and making him new with a shy but sure devotion.

Valjean’s eyes dart away and he ducks his head. Something has shifted in the air. Their usual patterns are no use out here.

Javert laughs uncertainly. Surely Valjean should have the advantage, out here in his own territory. For all that Javert once fancied himself working the land with his own hands, he is a creature most at home in the underworld. He has tracked thieves through the back alleys of Paris, slipped unseen through the dark corners of taverns and marched upright through the filth of the bagne. Here, surrounded by honest, natural sunlight, he is humbled. It is as though the presence of God is all around him, in the trembling leaves and the sweet bright bursts of wildflowers and weeds that are hidden in the grass. And, yes, in the man before him who kneels with eyes lowered, his hand clasped in Javert’s.

He swallows. “So be it. If God is within Valjean and Valjean would have it this way, then who is Javert to argue?” 

Valjean looks up at that, and his mouth is half open in protest when Javert reaches up to cup Valjean’s jaw. He pauses for a moment, studying Valjean. Watching for signs of the old wariness. He has had his hand on Valjean’s collar before. He has seized this man more times than he can count, and he has seen Valjean’s expression when he is cornered, with no choice left but to barter or beg or succumb. He knows the warning signs: A slight widening of the eyes. A set of the jaw.

There is none of that now. Valjean’s expression is like nothing Javert has ever seen before. There is a curious light in his eyes. And it occurs to Javert to wonder why he waited so long to do this before he cannot wait any longer and pulls Valjean forward into a kiss.

Valjean stiffens in surprise. But he does not give Javert time to doubt himself, relenting sweetly and softly beneath Javert’s lips. His hand comes up to touch Javert’s hair, his fingers wandering questioningly to the ribbon that holds it in place. Javert grunts in affirmation, too focused on Valjean’s mouth to form a sentence. Valjean’s fingers move deftly, loosening the ribbon as he has done on so many dark nights and allowing Javert’s hair to fall around his shoulders.

Valjean pulls back.

“There,” he says, breathless but smiling. “Now all of this feels a little less strange.”

“You find me _less_ strange with my hair loose?”

Valjean lifts a shoulder. “In this? Certainly.”

Javert nods, understanding a little of what Valjean means. The daylight is unusual. For him to lay his hands on Valjean is, somehow, also unusual. But the shy hint of a smile is still teasing at the corner of Valjean’s lips — which is unusual itself, particularly in recent weeks — and Javert is determined to nurture it.

He shifts closer and carefully untucks Valjean’s shirttails. He makes himself meet Valjean’s eye. “I’m going to take this off,” he announces. “With your permission, that is.”

Valjean glances over his shoulder as though some stranger might be lurking behind a bush, waiting for him to let his guard down. But the fields are empty for as far as the light reaches and Valjean nods, breathless again. 

He takes hold of Valjean’s shirt and pushes it up over Valjean’s head. Valjean raises his arms to help, and after a few minutes’ struggle, the shirt is a soft white bundle in Javert’s hands and Valjean’s chest is bared for his attention. How could Javert have gone so long without this sight?

“Good,” Javert hears himself say. His mouth is dry and working of its own accord. He tightens his hands in the cloth. Praise does not ordinarily come naturally to him — it is a thing that should be earned, after all. And yet here is more of it on his lips. “Very good, Valjean.” 

The words do something to Valjean. He half smiles and half twists away from Javert. The motion makes Javert want to pull him back and praise him again just to see what Valjean is trying to hide when he turns away. Instead, he drops the shirt on the grass and traces a thumb across the ridge of Valjean’s shoulder. Valjean shivers at the touch, his eyes fluttering closed. When Javert lowers his mouth to follow the path of his thumb, Valjean cannot suppress a low, urgent sound.

He moves up Valjean’s shoulder, half kissing and half biting, tasting salt and skin. Valjean shivers quietly beneath his lips, and by the time Javert reaches the base of Valjean’s throat, his breath is coming in a halting rhythm and he is supported almost entirely by the tree trunk that he’s still leaning against. Javert brushes his mouth against the base of Valjean’s throat, carefully finding the pale band of scarred flesh that will always carry the marks of an iron collar, that will always be slightly paler than the rest of Valjean’s skin. He presses his mouth to it. As an apology it is less than inadequate, but he knows by now that Valjean does not expect and would never ask for an apology. Certainly not from Javert, at any rate.

Valjean never asked for this either, Javert thinks, tracing a hand through the rough hair on Valjean’s chest. Left to his own devices, Valjean would have kept obligingly giving Javert what he needed under the cover of night and asking for nothing in return. And then Javert would never have seen him as he is now: Bathed in light and coming undone at the slightest touch.

His finger and thumb find a nipple and he teases it to hardness, taking care to be gentle. It is strange, to be gentle in anything. He cannot imagine wanting gentleness for himself in this, and a part of him whispers that Valjean is no better — that Valjean’s hands on his hips at night are so skilled because Valjean knows his desires all too well. But Javert has wished things on himself that he would never inflict on Valjean, so Valjean will have to be content with this.

Judging by the soft moans that Valjean cannot seem to stifle, he is more than content. The hand in Javert’s hair tightens, as if to urge Javert closer. It is as close as Valjean has ever come to voicing a request, so Javert cannot deny him. He runs an admiring palm down Valjean’s strong flank, watching with interest as Valjean responds to each new sensation. The strongest man Javert has ever known, and his breath quickens at the slightest touch.

He advances, straddling Valjean’s hips and guiding him down to lie on his back in the grass. Valjean’s eyes fall closed and he makes a soft, yearning sound. His hips shift upwards at the contact. Javert reaches down between them to unfasten his trousers, still half in disbelief that Valjean allows himself to be exposed in this way. But Valjean allows it, his breath coming in nervous, fluttering breaths as Javert draws his trousers down and then fully away. And when Javert stands back to admire the sight of Valjean, spread out before him in the long grass —undeniably alive, his chest rising and falling like the breath of the wind through leaves — Valjean allows that too.

Javert is no stranger to Valjean’s body. He has seen it bent in service in the sweltering heat and observed that same strength beneath Valjean’s elegant deceptions. He has felt the power of those arms around him and the heat of Valjean’s breath at his throat and felt himself accused by the scars at Valjean’s throat and ankle.

Now, for the first time, he can see the scattered pattern of fine silver hair on Valjean’s chest. He can press his lips to the softest part of Valjean’s inner thigh, hear the half-stifled sound that echoes his touch. Valjean’s hand in his hair is tentative now, as though Valjean cannot bear to compel him in this. And when he looks up questioningly, Valjean’s eyes are squeezed closed, his mouth slack with pleasure.

It is curious. Why has Valjean never asked for this? He must have wanted it a long time. And Valjean is a man who makes his wishes known and takes what he wants. If he did not, Javert would not be here, feeling the warmth of another’s body against his own.

But then, he realises, Valjean makes demands in the service of others. Never himself. _Help me shoulder this burden. Permit me more time to find this child, to take this boy home. Let me keep you alive. Let me make you whole._

Valjean’s thighs willingly part at Javert’s touch. He explores them with firm hands and Valjean shifts obligingly beneath him. Those strong thighs have served Valjean for decades, have allowed Valjean to be of service to so many. Javert takes care with Valjean’s left leg, nudging it rather than pushing, and watching with interest as Valjean follows his lead, allowing Javert to position him as he pleases, the better to please Valjean.

When he finds Valjean’s prick, it is already stiff and smearing drops of liquid that pool slick against his stomach. His balls are heavy and drawn up against his body. When Javert takes hold of Valjean’s right ankle and bends his knee, Valjean’s hips tilt further upwards and he shivers. Javert bends to press a kiss to Valjean’s knee. To his thigh. To the jutting bone of his hip and then to the place where his abdomen dips between the hip and the stomach. Valjean groans as Javert moves, his own hips stuttering upwards in an unvoiced plea. And it is not without satisfaction that Javert takes hold of Valjean’s hips and presses them firmly back to the ground.

“Not yet,” he says, knowing that his breath is warm and damp against Valjean’s leaking prick and knowing full well that Valjean will not break his hold by thrusting upwards. “First, would you look at me?”

He almost regrets the request as soon as it has left his lips. The sight of Valjean lost in pleasure is a rare gift, and Javert is loathe to pull Valjean out of his reverie. When he opens his eyes, though, it is more than worth it. His pupils are dark and dazed, focus coming slowly. But when they find Javert, they lock onto him as though he alone can guide Valjean out of the darkness. Javert allows his smile to widen, flashes his teeth.

“Very good. You’ve earned a reward.”

Valjean manages a soft laugh at that. “All of this—” his hand moves vaguely in a gesture that somehow takes in all of their surroundings, “is more than reward enough for one man.”

“Even so,” Javert lowers his mouth, allows his lips to brush the swollen red head of Valjean’s prick. Valjean quivers at the brief contact.

Valjean’s only response is a choked sound that is almost a sob as Javert closes his lips around him. He wraps a hand around the base of Valjean’s prick, bracing his free hand against the grass. He has never done this before, nor anything like it. But he can hardly be self-conscious. Valjean has allowed Javert to see the things he has spent a lifetime hiding away. And Javert has spent enough time in the company of foul-mouthed men to have an idea of what Valjean needs.

The head of Valjean’s prick pulses hot in his mouth. Javert pulls back to examine his hard work, smiling at Valjean’s stifled moan. And now even Valjean’s restraint is failing. He thrusts helplessly up into nothing, following the warmth of Javert’s mouth. His face is flushed, his warm skin bathed in sunlight and Javert firmly closes a hand around his prick, caressing him with with slow, teasing strokes.

“Good?” he asks, as though Valjean’s own body was not answer enough. As though Valjean could hope to form words at this point.

In response, Valjean’s hips tilt beseechingly up, his legs spreading a little further without a word or touch of encouragement. Is this how Javert looks, he wonders, when he’s driven mad by Valjean’s kind, slow touches and wants nothing more than to be taken? He traces an inquisitive finger down the length of Valjean’s prick, drawing out more moans and a long trail of clear fluid. He quirks his lips.

“Yes, you seem to like this a great deal, Valjean,” he means to make his tone strict, to make this a lesson. But he cannot keep the fondness from creeping into his voice. His lips cannot help but curl upwards. “I would have given you this a long time ago if I’d only realised how much you need it.” 

He smiles, grasps Valjean a little more firmly, “if only you’d spoken up.”

He swipes a thumb over the sensitive head, smearing the liquid down until Valjean’s prick is slick and gleaming in the sunlight. “But you’ll know what to do in future. Won’t you?”

The sounds Valjean makes are incoherent, but he is nodding, his hands scrabbling for purchase in the grass, and that is enough. 

“That’s right. No more hiding under the sheets or locking yourself up in your bedroom from now on,” Javert murmurs, lowering himself again. He takes it deeper this time, feels the weight of Valjean in his mouth and under his hands. Pulls back. Draws another strangled sob. “I know you can beg, Valjean. So why not learn to simply _ask_?”

And now Valjean has come fully apart, it seems unfair to expect a coherent response, so Javert takes pity on him and lowers his mouth again. Valjean’s breath escapes in a shuddering rush of _please_ and _Javert_ and _yes_ , his hand clutching helplessly at Javert’s shoulder and his hips prick urging upwards to meet Javert’s lips. 

It is so rare a thing to see Valjean lost in pleasure that a part of Javert wishes to draw it out, to make it last all afternoon. But more than that, he wants to see Valjean satisfied. To be the one who satisfies Valjean as no other ever has. He clutches Valjean’s hip and takes Valjean’s length in his mouth again. Valjean’s pleas lose their form at the touch of his lips, dissipate into a single sound of pleasure. And this time, Javert does not hesitate or tease. He is single minded in his task, working Valjean with his mouth and hands until there is nothing but salt and heat and a thrumming heartbeat he could chase forever. And when Valjean finds his release in Javert’s mouth, Javert wonders once more how he could have gone so long without this.

Afterwards, Valjean lies in the grass, one arm half covering his face. His chest lifts and falls and his breath slows and he is smiling and smiling and smiling. Javert crawls upwards to spread himself over that precious body, his lips moving carefully on Valjean’s throat. Valjean mumbles a word of thanks that Javert does not deserve, and he runs a hand through Javert’s hair. 

Javert can feel the pleasant ache of his own hardness, pressing against Valjean’s hip through his trousers, but he ignores it. The sun is warm on his back, on Valjean’s chest and shoulders. Above them is nothing but the occasional flapping of wings overhead, the hum of passing bees and a blue sky that stretches as far as the horizon. There is no trace of Paris here, with its high walls and narrow streets. The carriage will not be back for hours. They have all the time in the world.


End file.
